“I'm flattered that you remember me at all. I guess that gives you a leg up on my husband at least,” she retorts, causing him throw his head back and laugh.
“Yes, well, I always was the better man of the two of us,” he adds.
“And then you had to ruin it by speaking. I see some things never change, huh?”
“Look, let's just leave the past in the past. I fired you because you were an awful secretary.”
Linda cuts him off by picking up a bread roll from the center of the table and launching it at his head. “Fire that, asshat. I was an awesome secretary, clue in. The problem wasn't with me or with the billion other secretaries who came through your doors before and after me. The problem is you. Talk about small man syndrome.”
I muffle her voice by placing a hand over her mouth. “I get it. You guys are like oil and water. You're never going to mix, but for the love of god, can we leave the bloodshed until later. I happen to like this place and would like to come back. And you,” I point at Graham, who tries to look innocent, “stop antagonizing her or I'll buy Chole a drum kit for her birthday and tickets to the next Justin Bieber concert.”
He glares at me. “Not cool, man, not cool,” he says with a shake of his head but wisely shuts up.
I slowly move my hand from Linda’s mouth and stare at her in warning, but the little vixen merely rolls her eyes at me.
“So…Chloe is your daughter, right? I remember reading about it in the newspaper,” Linda asks, making Graham tense.
All jokes aside, if there is one thing he won't take shit about, it's either of his girls.
“Yes,” he clips out, reaching for a roll and taking a large bite, effectively attempting to shut down the conversation.
“Do you have any photos?” she queries softly.
He pauses mid-chew, gauging her sincerity before pulling his phone out and unlocking it. Finally, after searching, he finds what he's looking for and hands it over to her. Linda’s face lights up the minute her eyes land on Chloe. It's hard not to, that little girl has the face of an angel.
Graham visibly relaxes as Linda's smile gets bigger and bigger with every photo she skips through before a blush steals over her face, and she hurriedly hands the phone back to Graham. With a frown, he stares down at the screen before chuckling.
“Soraya isn't big on me taking her picture, so I have to sneak them. I forgot that was there,” he admits, making me curious, but I keep my mouth shut.
Knowing Graham, it's likely to be a candid shot of his fiancée in bed, sleeping.
“She's beautiful. They both are,” Linda tells him.
“They are, aren't they?” He smiles proudly.
They study each other for a few moments before Graham slides his phone back into his pocket and holds out his hand to shake once more.
“Truce?” he offers.
She rolls her eyes, but a small smile plays over her lips. “Truce,” she agrees, shaking his hand, pulling back when our food arrives.
The rest of lunch runs smoothly, conversation flowing easier than before, and we manage to make it all the way through without any blood spilled whatsoever. Focusing so much on the two of them, however, made me forget the real reason for coming here.
It isn't until the three of us walk outside when we’ve finished and cameras capture our exit that I remember calling in the press and giving them a heads up that I would be here today. Graham adopts his usual scowl. Saying his goodbyes, he heads back to his car.
Linda buries herself into my shoulder, trying to shield herself from the cameras but I lift her head and press my lips softly against hers. Nothing salacious, just enough for the photographers to see I care about the woman in my arms and for Skittle to know that I have zero intention of hiding her.
Twenty-Five
Linda
Closing the door to the apartment behind me, I take a deep breath, glad to be away from the craziness outside. It is so easy to forget Asher’s status and wealth when we exist in our own little bubble, but now I guess the secret's out, although how they knew to find us there is beyond me.
After Asher dropped me off, he headed straight back to the office, meaning I now have plenty of time to finish up what I was working on before lunch. I head to the bedroom first, stripping out of my dress in favor of my short red shorts and a black tank top that's splattered with paint, and pull my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head. It will gradually work itself free, and it will end up speckled with paint before I've even realized, but for now, it's good.
Making my way over to the room Asher let me set up as a studio, I swing the door open wide and take a deep breath. The smell of paint is a calming balm, easing any tension the paparazzi brought on before, effectively wiping the stress of the day away as my veins flood with the need to create.
I’ve found making art can be much like writing in that it's easy to get stuck inside your head and find your creativity blocked for one reason or another. Since meeting Asher though, I've been nothing but inspired with ideas and images flooding my brain. So much so that it’s almost like the art creates itself, flowing effortlessly from my fingertips, and I’m just along for the ride.
Moving over to the painting I’ve been working on, I shake my head as I study it.
When I paint, I go into an almost trancelike state, my mind ignoring everything around me, even the painting itself as I move from one aspect of it to another. But looking at it now with fresh eyes, I notice the silhouette of the non-descript man has intense indigo eyes. The vivid color breaks up the darkness of the image, adding light to the haunting shadow that cloaks him, hypnotically capturing my attention and refusing to let it go.
It seems my subconsciousness is just as infatuated with the man as the rest of me.
Deciding it doesn’t need anything else added to it, I turn the easel so the canvas is hidden from view and opt to sketch for a while instead. I grab a large sketch pad and a pack of pencils and make my way over to the windows, sitting on the pile of cushions tossed haphazardly in the corner.
After the sketch I did on the train home the first night I spent here, I’ve been recreating the superhero comic strip and adding to it daily. Each scene depicts an aspect of our marriage, where Asher is the hero and his sidekick is a kick-ass, rainbow-haired assassin. It's fun and different from my usual darker stuff. I'm hoping that I can get it finished so that when our three months together are up, I can give it to him as proof.
Proof that I want to stay and all the reasons why.
Sitting here now, gazing down at the busy street below, I wonder why I ever thought I'd have a choice in the matter. My heart was always going to win out in the end. This chemistry between Asher and me is combustible, and I don't want to give it up.
Maybe our marriage is doomed to fail. Lord knows we are doing everything backward. But when I close my eyes and picture my future, Asher is always standing next to me with his hand wrapped tightly around mine.
I zone out for a while, losing myself in the pages of my book as the colors take form and the characters come to life, until a cough draws my attention toward the doorway. Looking up, I see Asher watching me with a soft smile on his face, leaning against the doorframe. I quickly snap the book closed so he can't see anything and notice it's dark outside.